


J'en ai Rêvé

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: All they do is sleep, sleep, sleep, no matter what.





	J'en ai Rêvé

**Author's Note:**

> 100% PWP. Peer pressure got me.

The Joseph brothers sleep long and hard. Of all people, P.O. should know. When he comes through their front door and finds Mathieu sprawled out on their living room sofa, he’s jealous and a little annoyed. He’d had his own plans for that couch. Sure, there were other couches and chairs and beds, but that isn’t the point. Mathieu knew P.O. would want a nap when he got back, and that he loves all the amenities that couch has to offer, including proximity to the kitchen.

Maybe it’s a dick move to be louder than strictly necessary as he warms up some Mikes, but any guilt P.O. might’ve felt evaporates when he peeks back into the living room and sees that Mathieu is still dead asleep.

_ What would it take? _

P.O. looms over his big brother, scowling as he takes in the headphones, the pillows propping up Mathieu’s perfectly blank face,  _ his  _ favorite blanket—

He starts. Mathieu’s long legs are already uncovered, fabric bunched awkwardly in his lap. A familiar tug drags itself out of the back of P.O.’s mind, spreading hot through his nerves. Without a conscious thought, he reaches out and tugs the blanket the rest of the way onto the floor. Mathieu runs hot when he’s asleep. At some point, his shirt got hiked up over his stomach, thin shorts twisted up around his thighs. They did nothing to hide his hardening cock, rising up from against his lap.

P.O. swallows hard. It’s all unintentional, he knows, but it doesn’t make all that soft skin, the vulnerability, any less appealing. He knows it’s fucked. That he shouldn’t want to look in the first place.

Mathieu needs to wake up. P.O. grabs his shoulder, just his shoulder, to shake him, but he doesn’t even flinch, and P.O. can’t follow through. He can feel the heat of his brother’s neck against his hand. It lowers, over Mathieu’s heartbeat. P.O.’s taller than Mathieu, but Mathieu still has a few years of  _ physical maturity _ on him. Stronger. More muscle. Slowly, carefully, P.O. brings his hands down over the hot planes of Mathieu’s abs, before down against his hip. He feels so solid, only barely softened by sleep. 

It’s almost enough, just being able to feel Mathieu like this without having to worry about if Mathieu could  _ tell  _ what thoughts went through his little brother’s mind. P.O. gets down on his knees next to the couch, hypnotized, bringing his other hand up to feel along the arm hanging over the edge, his wrist. It’s so much P.O. can barely breathe. 

He feels himself get hard in his own shorts, and the heavier he feels, the more impossible it is to rip his gaze away from Mathieu’s cock. Is it harder now than it was when P.O. walked in? 

P.O.’s already done too much. He has no idea what he’d say, if Mathieu woke up and caught him like this. Let alone anything more incriminating.

_ …Could  _ P.O. get him off, without him waking up? He’s woken up with sticky shorts often enough to know you could sleep through orgasms, and if he’s careful enough, would this really be all that different?

It’s stupid. It’s so incredibly stupid. P.O. slides a hand up the leg of his brother’s shorts, carefully, thinking of how sensitive the inside of his thighs are. Mathieu and his cock both twitch.

_ Fuck. _

P.O. draws back for a long moment, hands in his lap, as Mathieu continues to breathe evenly, still asleep. He’s already taken so much. It should be enough to last him five minutes in the bathroom now, and forever after. There’s no thrill greater than what’d be lost, if this went wrong. He kneels up, levering himself the sofa, fingers just barely grazing soft skin.

Just one taste. A raspberry, if Mathieu woke up. That’s all he needed. Slowly, he leans forward and presses his mouth against Mathieu’s obliques. His _ fuck V, _ P.O.’d picked up somewhere. Probably the locker room. He nearly groans at the thought. His breath comes shallowly as tongue meets hot skin, a careful prodding. P.O. listens carefully for any signs of disturbance. Nothing.

He leans back and pushes his forward against the sliver of cushion Mathieu isn’t covering. His mind feels like it’s steaming and venting out his ears, leaving nothing behind but want. 

Mathieu’s cock is  _ right there. _

With one hand, he reaches out and runs two fingertips along the length of it. Not enough. He traces over the shape of it, the width, the indents he catches through thin cotton, cups it when Mathieu twitches again. He feels searing hot in P.O.’s hand. P.O. waits until he settles again and strokes, gently, with just his fingers, thinking of what feels good for him. A part of him is sure it can’t be enough, not enough pressure or contact, but he sits, transfixed, as a damp spot slowly starts to cling to the head of Mathieu’s cock.

His mouth waters at the sight. He knows, now, that just touching isn’t enough for  _ him. _ He wants to make his brother feel good, make him come. Even if he never could awake. It feels like a miracle that Mathieu’s still sleeping, one quiet summer day where P.O. can finally take just a pinch of what he’s wanted for so long. It’ll have to be enough.

He holds his breath as he slides his fingers under the elastic of Mathieu’s shorts, pulling them down until his cock is freed. It’s a lot like P.O.’s own, maybe a little longer, a little thinner. He isn’t about to waste time hunting down measuring tape, although it makes him wonder if it’s narcissistic to think his brother’s dick is beautiful. Mathieu feels so soft against his fingers. P.O. is careful, worshipful, as he lifts Mathieu’s cock upright, rolls back his foreskin. 

He can’t ever forget the sight of this. How it feels to hold Mathieu so closely.

P.O. kneels up and, after watching Mathieu’s chest rise and fall a few times, moves to meet the rich tip against his tongue. He licks around, chasing the taste of precome, not daring to do this right. His own swallowing is the loudest noise in the house. Mathieu is so hard, and P.O. cannot  _ believe  _ that he’s still sleeping, that he gets to have this.

When Mathieu comes, it with a few automatically clenched muscle and a small whimper that makes P.O. lean back quicker than he’d have liked. Some of Mathieu’s come catches on P.O.’s lips, but most of it ends up pooled on his own stomach. P.O. watches, a knot tight in his stomach, as he settles back into a deeper sleep, breath evening out once more.

In comparison, it doesn’t feel like much of a risk at all to pull out his own cock and wrap Mathieu’s fingers around it, jerking into their joined hands a handful of times before shooting off himself.

His own breath is deafening in the aftermath. P.O. jolts upward on half-numb legs, wipes himself quickly. He’s more careful with Mathieu, tucking him back into his shorts, doing his best to make him look unbothered. It’s not hard. His face is as blank as it was when P.O. came in. He’ll never have to work to keep that way.

P.O. takes the soiled blanket with him when he flees. All the buttons on the washing machine overwhelm him for a second before he just presses start and trusts the default settings. He stole it back and dropped pizza on it. He practices in the bathroom mirror until it becomes true.

**Author's Note:**

> [My NSFW tumblr,](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com) dedicated to pictures and discussions of dicks.


End file.
